Accounting for Parallax Error
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: A life on the run, through photos.


_Many thanks to both aidy and csinut214 for all of their help on this. _

* * *

There had been one thing he had thought to stock up on before he settled down between dunes and cacti

There had been one thing he had thought to stock up on before he settled down between dunes and cacti. Staples such as clothing and mementos and few case files were packed away tightly in a sturdy suitcase, hastily thrown together as he made his getaway.

A photo of Scully, a photo of his sister, a rare, original Mickey Mantle card his father had given him for his tenth birthday (worth somewhere in the tens of thousands, the last time he'd bothered to check but worth more in memories). Things of importance. A packet of contact information and instructions for remaining below the wire from the Gunmen, a leather-bound journal that had been with him since his days at Oxford. Pages of coded documents, a copy of The Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (a newspaper clipping featuring the two of them tucked carefully between 'The Red Headed League' and 'A Case of Identity').

Mulder truly knew love by that gaping hole that was left in his soul upon his departure. He understood what it meant to be bonded to someone. Two perfectly cohesive particles, bonded for life, unable to retract or retreat. It felt perfect and perfectly agonizing. Scully deserved to know everything of his absence, as best as he could relate it.

There was no sure way to recount for her the happenings of his life while away, no way to truly explain to her how he was doing, what he was doing, where he was, how much he desperately needed her. Words only said so much, and though he intended on keeping thorough track of his life in the blank pages that he'd brought along, there would be something lacking.

The second he had taken leave of her, there had been a dull, undeniable ache in the center of his chest, longing for the home he was leaving, the child and mother he was abandoning. Never in his years had he encountered such pain, not even after the loss of his sister or his parents. He was sure, in all of his limited capacity to imagine it, that he'd encountered perfection for a few short days in the presence of Scully and William.

Everything he'd always wanted, needed... and only to have to leave.

There were things they needed to know, the both of them, if something should happen to him. Surely he would pen long verses to his son, to the mother of his child, but there were banalities that needed to be documented and told of as well--the banalities that accompanied the substance of each day. And thus, before he fled, Langly had provided him with a bag full of disposable cameras and a warning to try and keep them out of the heat.

Because they had to last him until he could leave his reclusive spot, Mulder calculated how many photos he should take per day, and subtracted one, just to be safe. Three photos a day would last him two months. Morning, noon and night he would be able to catalogue a single event and extrapolate on its significance. A menial task to break up the time between deciphering the truth.

There was a sheet as well, a piece of paper corresponding to each camera. He labeled each plastic Kodak with a Sharpie number 1, 2, 5, 7, and so on. And each of the 27 exposures had corresponding explanations written in Mulder's distinctive scrawl across thick cardstock. Dates and times were etched beside each observation, and in the crease there was enough room to allow a liberal tear, in order to separate the sheets and send them on forth for delivery to her.

The first camera was used, though the subjects of the photos were deliberated over at length. He didn't want to run out of pictures. If he ran out, he didn't... didn't know what he would do.

1.1 , him, obviously holding the camera in front of him, not smiling. "I'm here, I'm fine. This might be a little blurry. Is my finger in front of the lens? Who knows. I miss you more than you can know, but hesitated from pouting in this, knowing what you've told me it does to your knees."

The second and third were of the deserted plain in front of the shelter he'd deemed his habitation. There was roughly no color to them, and thus, he tried to add some pigment with his words, blue ink on ivory.

1.2, gray sand and burnt vegetation and miles and miles of nothing. "This is the backyard, let's call it. I look out over the horizon and can see your face, looking at this.

Stop crying. I know you are, so don't try denying it.

And stop blaming yourself."

1.7, a heap of garbage in a small pail. "I've learned to clean up after myself, no one here to do it for me. Though the recycling facilities are non-existent. Must write the landlord. Miss you, miss you terribly. (It's only been a week!)"

But after a bit, he'd loosened his technique. Perhaps realizing that his frankness might upset or unnerve her, make her long to have him back, he truly began to detail for her the mundane.

2 .13, "So I tried to make soup today, it didn't work out." And in the photos, a burnt pot with the charred remains of what used to be some sort of meat. Flecks of color standing out amongst the charcoal black. "I can grill a mean steak but apparently Campbell's is out of my league. You'll have to teach me to cook." The 'when I come home' goes unwritten.

2.26, an empty toilet paper dispenser. "Not that there was toilet paper here, I've been using old newspaper, but still, I've run out. I'm not exactly sure what to do..." There are a few scratches of omission and then, "I'm going to have to go into town soon. Luckily Langly planned for this."

That would give her a laugh, it was sure to. The thought of him wiping his ass with the cover story of the New York Times made him more jovial than he'd been in awhile.

3.1, a small pot with a mug next to it, the tag from a generic tea bag peeking shyly around the curve of the cup. "There's not kettle, this doesn't exactly lend to the best tea but does make me recall quite vividly the night you came to my bed. Do you remember that, Scully?" His penmanship gets loopier here, longer strides between letters, dips and arches seeming to have a bit more romance in them. "You spoke with God and then you spoke with me and I was finally allowed to-"

Here, there is hesitation in the letters, a bit of a stutter in the spacing, in the sweep of the L. "love you like I knew I had been longing to for as long as I could remember. How hollow for me to pour all of this onto paper (though I can be quite eloquent, I'll write you a hundred-thousand verses if it meant I can be next to you, right now in this moment) but I do love you, in manners I'm not entirely sure I understand.

You gave me so much that night, your heart, your soul, William."

3.2, a photo of the photo of her, the inscription dated and timed not an hour after his previous shot. "I miss your heart and your body and our son. I don't know how to stop missing you. There has to be a way."

3.12, "Not for nothing, but I'm missing baseball. I mean, I miss you (as I've said before, but don't be an attention hog, Scully, GOD!), but I miss watching the push for the pennant. You wouldn't understand, I know, but I like to fantasize sometimes that you're sitting on the couch, watching Y.E.S. for me. God, that is so sexy. Quote those box scores, baby."

The only solace he felt was in knowing that his words, that the cameras, were making their way to her. The Gunmen had promised a biweekly pickup at a predetermined spot; a network of their trusted confidants bringing the photography across the country, back to her.

Back to her…

He would pick up his pen and put it down, overthinking what he wanted to write before settling on spelling out whatever came to him. There was no point in overthinking it. She'd see through it. And from the heart was better to begin with, it gave him the relief he needed the most.

3.22, "This is the refrigerator." Nothing in it, of course. "I apparently, don't change. Just FYI." A few words scribbled out and then, "Are you ready for this? It's very sappy, Scully. I tried to avoid it but it's too perfect, what I've concocted, ready?... I apparently don't change, and I'm still nothing without you. That was pretty bad right? I thought so. ...I need orange juice."

The photos were sporadically abstract, accompanying a note of "Guess what this is?", with the answer on the back of the paper. The rusty soapholder in the shower, the toe of his sneaker, his fingernail. (The photo of his fingernail was accompanied by a post script posing: "Does this look professional enough to be featured in Highlights magazine? I'm considering submitting it.")

4.12, "I can finally listen to music!" His index finger was poking through the center of a compact disc. "One of the guy's guys was able to make living here manageable. Old pickup (photo later), shitty stereo, a television that picks up two stations (grainy, but acceptable, all things considered), and a VHS player. Nothing exciting, some old skiing videos and Dirty Harry. There's worse than Clint Eastwood, I suppose..."

More and more and more, finally he loosened up enough to allow himself a few more risque photos. 5.15-5.17 would make her flush, blush, hopefully come. Various snapshots of portions of his body not normally photographed. "I don't know what to write..." he'd sloppily penned."Except to say that this is... not something I'd ever usually do, and Frohike, if you're reading this, don't doubt that I'm going to put your ass in a sling."

5.3-6.7, much of the same, and the photos began to slip from three times a day to two and then back again. The inconsistency, he was sure, would be apparent to her. He'd been lucky enough to have access to the internet for a few short minutes a day, sending her veiled e-mails, not mentioning the photos for fear of interception and of his discovery.

And finally 6.11, the last on a camera. It was mailed hastily, her name scrawled hastily on the front in red ink; a photo of a tiny toy train. "I'll see you soon, I'll find a way. There's...things that need to be said. I have to see you. I don't know if this will reach you in time."


End file.
